


Beset

by PhantomsDaughter13



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Whump, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomsDaughter13/pseuds/PhantomsDaughter13
Summary: Steve finally knows where Bucky is being held, but there was no way he could have prepared himself for the reality of finding him.





	Beset

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, it's been a long time! I'm very excited to finally start posting again. I've been working on this fic for years, and finally taking the plunge to just get it out there. Not beta-ed, so mistakes are mine. If you are easily squicked, this one may not be for you. 
> 
> My poor boys. Comfort will come.

He was deep underground. The lack of windows and the dull, limpid lights gave a sensation of suffocation the farther Steve crept. The doors were made of thick metal, tiny scratched and dirty windows near the top of each.

Steve held firmly onto his shield, ears pricked for any noise, any movement or disturbance. His jaw was clenched and he felt hot in his suit, burning anger and fury thrumming right under his skin. His footsteps were soft and thoughtfully placed. 

He knew Bucky was down here. He just needed to find him. 

He silently walked the hall, looking through each door as best he could. He could feel himself becoming impatient, frustrated with each empty room. 

“Where are you, Buck,” he whispered. 

As he looked into another vacant room, shaking his head in irritation, chest tightening, he heard an echo of a deep groan. He froze, eyes wide. It had come from the end of the hall, past the flickering lights and deep in the shadows. 

It sounded pained, and it was familiar. 

“Bucky,” he moaned anxiously, jerking into action and swiftly running to the approximation of where the noise came from. He ran and quickly looked in the rooms that passed him by, heart pounding. 

Another muffled noise of distress sounded, and alongside it were deep chuckles from at least two other people. Steve felt something twisting in his stomach, a primal desire that spread and infused every part of his body. 

He moved to a door lit by a flickering, dull bulb clearly on the verge of dying. Steve could hear the sound of men talking, their tones amused and mocking while their words were distorted. 

He couldn’t pause and look through the window, couldn’t consider strategies or any plan of action. He was so infused with fury and fear that he couldn’t think. He reached up and pulled his communicator from his ear, large, solid hands shaking with unadulterated rage.

Throwing open the door, he saw a scene that burrowed into his chest, his mind, and his body in a snapshot of horror. 

There was a metal table in the middle of the room, a solid thing that was clearly fortified and connected to the floor. There were three men surrounding it, wearing black fatigues. 

One of them was leaning against the wall, zipper undone and erection held in one hand. He was pumping it slowly, red and dripping, his upper body leaning against the wall lazily while looking at the figure bound before him. 

The next was palming himself through his pants, squeezing and rubbing with the heel of his hand while the other fondled the thigh of the man lying before him. Color was high in his face, and sweat was beading along his lip and forehead. He had on a white coat with a name embroidered on the breast pocket. 

The last man stood right between the prone man’s legs, four fingers pushed deep inside him, twisting and thrusting. He, too, was hard, face flushed with arousal. He was speaking low and gruffly, head bent as he took in the red swollen skin around his fingers. 

Steve’s pulse was thrumming so loud that he couldn’t understand his words, but he could hear the suggestion, the violence in them. 

In the middle of it all, bound and chained to the table, was Bucky. 

His legs were strapped with reinforced cuffs to a set of stirrups, his thick thighs uncomfortably wide as they shivered, toes curling and uncurling as his legs twitched. His wrists were wrenched and bound above his head. A thick band of enforced straps wrapped around his chest and held him down under swollen pectorals and tight around his heaving flanks. 

Half of his face was bound and smothered by a black muzzle, only his eyes and forehead exposed. He was covered with sweat, and his eyes were rolling back in his head, pupils so dilated that the blue was gone. 

But his belly was what Steve couldn’t help but focus on, swallowing down a thick wave of repulsion and nausea. It was round and firm, an aberration of his heavily muscled frame that looked swollen and painful. 

A pained noise escaped Bucky, a tiny thing smothered by the mask, his eyes squeezing shut as he writhed, clearly suffering. 

In the time of a breath, Steve’s entire vision went red. He was gone, lost in a surge of fury and anguish and _Bucky Bucky BuckyBuckybuckybuckybuck_. 

When he came back to himself, breathing hard and head swimming dizzily, the bodies of the men were on the floor, bloody and unconscious. His shield shook in his grasp, the echoing sound of its booming purchase against the last man’s skull fading in the dark room. 

His hands went limp at his sides, a wave of helpless weakness rising and cresting as his shield slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. 

On staggering legs, he moved to Bucky’s side, eyes wide and clear and burning, unable to look away. 

The first thing he does is cup the top of his head, thumb shaking as it gently rubs against his forehead. His skin sparked with the contact, reminiscent of limbs burning from the softest warmth after being ravaged by hypothermia. His other hand reached under and fumbled for the straps of the black muzzle, shaking so hard that he almost couldn’t work the buckles. 

Bucky didn’t even look at him, eyes glazed and blinking sluggishly. What he could see of his expression was pinched and agonized. 

“I’ve got you, Buck, I’ve got you,” Steve was rambling, finally getting the last leather fastening undone and gently sliding it off, a choked noise lodging in his throat as he finally saw Bucky’s face again. 

He gingerly framed his cheeks with both hands, tossing the muzzle haphazardly to the ground. 

“Bucky,” he called, coaxing his roaming eyes to hazily settle on his face. “You’re safe now. I’m gonna get you out of here, you hear me? I’m gonna get you out.” 

Bucky’s mouth was open and drinking in huge gasping breaths. He struggled to focus on Steve. 

Suddenly he groans, a sound colored dark with pure agony and misery, and arches his back as much as possible where he is constricted. The veins in his temples stand out and his skin flushes. Steve sees the muscles in his arms bulge as he pulls against his restraints.

But what makes Steve’s hair stand on end, the feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ pulsing like Morse code through his core, is that Bucky’s swollen belly tightens and shrinks, distorting against something hard that is under his skin. His body is laboring, winding tight, and Steve starts to understand.

Moaning in shock, Steve moves between Bucky’s legs, sleepwalking through a nightmare so real that it can’t be true. But somehow it is.

Bucky is still groaning, body taut and straining. He’s holding his breath, entire body arrested by the pain holding him captive. 

Framed between his thick, flexing thighs, slick with viscous fluid, blood, and semen, Steve watches something round and hard bulge against his entrance. It is huge and wide, the skin of his red, raw hole fluttering weakly as it is pushed against. 

It recedes when Bucky’s body collapses hard back down onto the metal table. 

Fevered, Steve examines the thick, heavy cuffs viciously holding Bucky’s body splayed open. He sees the opening for a key, and goes to search the bodies of the unconscious men littering the floor. He finds it in the breast pocket of the one whose fingers still shine with the fluid from Bucky’s body in the sick, yellow light. 

When he gets Bucky’s right leg unlocked, he makes a sharp, keening noise and pulls it close to his body, hip audibly popping, his left quickly joining. His bottom is fully exposed, his back undulating as he pushes again, feet flexing and curling as he bares down hard against the mass straining to escape. 

Steve’s trembling hands are drawn to his belly, cupping its sides as it pulls in tight. He holds it gingerly as the round form distending little by little between Bucky’s buttocks whitens the skin of his perineum. 

When Bucky once again slackens, pain receding for the time being, his belly softens against his palms. Steve can’t help but to stroke it gently, breath shuddering in his chest. 

“Oh, Buck,” he whispers, sick and horrified.

Bucky doesn’t look at him, seems to not really recognize or care that he is there. He arches and pulls at his arms where they are still bound. He sweats heavily, but his teeth are chattering. 

Steve bangs his hip against the table as he rushes to unlatch his wrists, furious that he had faltered in setting him free. 

When he gets Bucky completely unbound, his screams tightly as the joints of his shoulders snap when he wrenches them down, curling on his side and dry heaving. Nothing comes up, but he spends a few minutes retching miserably, whimpering between the spasms and throat-tearing gagging. 

Steve holds back his lank hair with one hand, the other gently rubbing the length of his heaving side. 

He can’t help but to move to the other side of the table when Bucky goes limp, crouching down to be level with Bucky’s face. His own chest is tight with distress, echoing early years of asthma and sickness and bone-deep worries. 

He uses his fingers to wipe some of the sweat and blood off the skin of Bucky’s face. Bucky’s eyes are half-closed as he curls up as much as his belly will allow. His hands have come to cradle it, high up where the first big turn of the curve arches away from his ribs. 

Steve covers the one resting against the right side, parallel to the sharp line of ribs cutting through the powerful muscles in his side. 

“Tell me what to do, Buck,” Steve whispers hoarsely. He ducked his head to try and catch Bucky’s gaze, but his eyes were glassy. “Please.” 

Bucky slumped farther onto his side, neck falling limp while his eyelids fluttered. The bang of his skull on the metal table shook through Steve’s bones. 

“Hey, c’mon, stay with me,” Steve whispered, one of his big hands tucking under to pillow his head while the other tapped gently at his cheek, then slightly harder when he received no response. “Bucky.”

Steve was living in a waking fever dream. Bucky was unresponsive, groaning softly while his fingers twitched against his swollen stomach. Steve couldn’t carry him out of there, Hydra still stalking the halls, and he couldn’t leave him to sweat and writhe in pain alone while he went for help. 

His body was awash with helplessness, and he wanted to rage and destroy everything around him, feel the destruction through the sensitive skin of his hands while also pulling Bucky into his arms and never moving again, holding him warm and secure and out of sight of the whole world. 

Growling anxiously, Steve moved to throw open the door on the other side of the room. He roughly dragged the deadweight of the men out into the hallway like black bags filled with garbage and secured the padlock on the doorframe closed. It clanged loudly, echoing through the dank, dark room.

He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s heavy shoulders as he slid onto the metal table behind him. He carefully turned him onto his back and propped him up against his chest. He held his head up with a hand gently on his crown, keeping his airway clear, with the other hand resting flat and spread upon his sternum. 

Steve shakily buried his nose into the juncture of his neck and the join of his metal arm, breathing shakily. The metallic scent of ozone was sharp and alien, but Bucky’s weight was a comfort. He was undeniably there, heavy and solid and hot against him. 

“You gotta wake up, Buck,” Steve whispered into his ear, nuzzling into his stringy hair. “I don’t know how to help you.” 

A deep rumble vibrated through Bucky’s chest, causing Steve to shiver with the aftershocks as they rolled through his ribs. A calloused, rough hand clamped down hard on his forearm that rested around his chest, but not to pull him away. Bucky’s fingers twitched and tightened around him, but didn’t let go. 

Bucky’s eyes were still unfocused, his head tilted back onto Steve’s shoulder while he looked through the dark, broken slabs of concrete of the ceiling, but they were open. His chest began to rise and fall in huge waves. Steve moved the hand from his forehead down to his rounded stomach, hesitating before softly resting his palm against his side. 

A wounded noise escaped Bucky’s throat, and Steve jerked to pull his hand back. Instead, Bucky switched arms and held Steve flush against his hot skin. Steve couldn’t hold back the immediate sense of _wrong not okay_ when he allowed his fingers to spread wide over the curve of his belly, the heat from the warm skin prickling along all his nerves. 

Bucky slumped bonelessly in his arms, shaking minutely in Steve’s hold, still and quiet for the first time since Steve had found him. 

“I’ve got you, Buck. You’re safe, I’ve got you,” he whispered numbly into his hair, his own skin feeling tight against his bones. “Just tell me what to do. How do I get the pain to stop?” 

The only response he received was a hard shudder. Bucky’s legs were twisted on the table, and Steve reached forward to help readjust them so his feet were flat. 

Bucky groaned throatily as he pushed harder back into Steve’s body, and Steve himself felt the swell of his stomach start to tighten and pull in. 

“No,” Bucky mumbled, tossing his head back hard to the point that Steve had to pull away at the risk of his nose being broken. “I don’t want to.” He lips pulled back into a pained snarl, his eyes clenched closed. 

Bucky dug his heels sloppily into the metal table, one of his ankles turning out so he was pressing in with the side of his foot. Steve reached forward until he could cup his hands around the inside of Bucky’s thighs, spreading them up and out. Bucky huffed a few wet breaths before grunting and bearing down. 

Steve could feel the palpitations of his own heart, but he swallowed hard and focused. He rubbed small circles on the side of Bucky’s knee where he held it back and spread open, Bucky’s legs trembling and toes curling in a heartbreaking sort of way.

“That’s it Buck, keep going, keep going.” 

Bucky’s face was slowly becoming a deep, ruddy red, teeth clenched so hard that Steve worried he was going to crack them. His neck was bent forward, and Steve could see each muscle as they pressed hard against his skin.

The rest of his torso incrementally curled forward and away from Steve’s chest, and when Steve moved forward to brace him, he arched back against him instantly. He was taut and quivering, and Steve felt the aftershocks down to his very marrow.

Suddenly Bucky stopped and jerked hard, legs trying to close while Steve did his best to hold them open, chin on Bucky’s shoulder to try and still him.

Bucky gave a huge, rasping gasp before he began hyperventilating, writhing in Steve’s arms while his thighs trembled hard.

“What is it,” Steve asked. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky seemed completely lost in the grasp of the contraction, struggling to ride it out. When it passed, he dropped back into Steve’s body, awash with sweat and the acrid smell of fear. Steve lowered his legs down to the table, but kept one large hand on the soft skin of his inner knee, stopping them from closing.

“Buck, you need to tell me what I can do. Please,” Steve said urgently. 

“Burns,” Bucky panted, eyes rolling in his head. “It burns.” He tilted his head back against Steve’s shoulder, throat vulnerable and bare. He let go of Steve’s arm and reached between his legs. 

A grunt and a grimace followed whatever he found, a low, gravelly hum echoing through his chest as he continued to explore. His hand came back covered with bloody show, smearing against his skin as he cupped the lower curve of his belly.

“It won’t come out,” he rasped. “Too big. ‘s too big.”

He closed his eyes and panted, his belly rising and falling under Steve’s calloused palm. Steve couldn’t help but to rub it in small circles, continuing when Bucky sighed and rested heavier against him. 

Steve swallowed thickly, thoughts racing a mile a minute. Sam and Natasha were elsewhere in the building, and while his instincts growled to keep them away, to protect and guard and hide, he knew he was in way over his head. 

He fumbled his comm back into his ear, wincing slightly at the loud volume of Sam calling for him.

“Falcon,” he croaks, 

There was a pause.

“What the actual fuck is going on, Cap. Where the hell are you?”

“Sam,” Steve tries again, and he can’t even recognize his voice, something shaking within it.

There was another pause.

“I-I found Bucky, but…there’s something wrong” he rasps, mouth cottony, struggling concentrate on what he was saying. 

He was out of his depth. Bucky needed more than him for help, but he also wanted to pull him into a corner, safe and far away from anyone or anything.

“He’s…I…he’s in so much pain…I don’t know what to do.”

“Where the hell are you?” Sam asked without hesitation.

“Basement, left of the main corridor. Three unconscious HYDRA agents unconscious in the hall.”

Bucky squirmed a little, grimacing and swallowing thickly. Steve ran a hand in a large stroke over his belly, eyes drawn to how it rose and fell with Bucky’s breath. 

“Hurry.”

“On my way.”


End file.
